


wolves in the sand dunes

by shipwreckinabottle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckinabottle/pseuds/shipwreckinabottle
Summary: “This is not our fight, White Wolf,” said the Yemeni between sips of traditional Syrian tea. “We’re to receive payment and leave, nothing more,” he tapped the loaded Kalashnikov to his side, implication strong in his voice. “I need not remind you of that.”/in which Pepper's plane was shot down by the Ten Rings and Bucky was in the area.





	wolves in the sand dunes

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite rare pairings :) 
> 
> Not beta-ed, let me know if there are any mistakes / if you'd like to help out.
> 
> Also, if you'd like to prompt me, [Click Here.](https://shipwreckinabottle.tumblr.com/post/177321349553/mcu-one-shot-promts-aka-i-need-more-writing)

An armored convoy carrying at least two dozen men of the Ten Rings—features hidden behind dark masks even in the suffocating desert heat—drove into and, with military grade weaponry and precision, commandeered the Al-Qaeda checkpoint.

A small truck drove up to the gates soon after the local insurgency’s surrender; five hostages sat in the back, bags over their heads and arms bound behind their backs.

On the other side of the small village, two men watched the unfolding situation from a medium-sized Bedouin tent.

One of them, an American male, who’d yet to touch his flatbread and hummus since the Ten Rings’ arrival, remained silent and in thought. That, along with the escalating situation outside, made his Yemeni companion a nervous man.

“This is not our fight, _White Wolf_ ,” said the Yemeni between sips of traditional Syrian tea. The hot drink was a little too sweet for his taste, but the familiarity of it helped calm his nerves. “We’re to receive payment and leave, nothing more,” he tapped the loaded Kalashnikov to his side, implication strong in his voice. “I need not remind you of that.”

The American did not answer, as quiet and as stoic as their first meeting months ago. Instead, he remained at the edge of the tent, watching the outside scene unfolding through parted covers. “I don’t think we’re getting paid,” he said after a short minute.

The Yemeni looked towards where the American was looking and cursed.

The village’s chieftain, a lowly warlord with delusions of grandeur, a fetish for violence and, most importantly, deep oil pockets—laid motionless in the middle of the village’s square. He was in the midst of procuring their payment when the men of the Ten Rings showed up. Now, there was a bullet square between his eyes, and brain matter splattered across the sand.

Pouring himself another drink, the Yemeni cursed again in his native tongue. “Then we should cut our losses and leave,” he grunted, clearly annoyed at their current predicament. “These men are never good for business.” As he started to pack his gear, someone outside started to bark orders in Arabic.

There was a flurry of activity as the hostages were unloaded from the truck. All five of them, forced into the desert floor; two wore combat fatigues, likely military or private contractors; two were in formal attire, likely here on business, looking way out of place in the scorching heat; and the last was a woman, her blonde hair a wild contrast in a sea of black masks.

When the bag was yanked off the woman’s head, she winced at the evening sun, as if previously held for long periods in the dark. Dried blood caked the side of her face, and her hands, like the rest of the hostages, remained tied behind her back.

More orders were barked across the courtyard. The group of hostages were directed towards the dead chieftain’s dwellings—the largest building in the small village. One of the men in combat fatigues limped, blood soaking through his clothing from a previous wound. He only managed a few steps before collapsing to the ground.

The nearest guard started to yell at him, the barrel of his weapon pressed into the fallen hostage’s face. When he did not move, someone shouted an order—and wild crows took flight as the crack of the guard’s weapon echoed through the villageplace.

The woman screamed. Not just in horror, but at the guard, until another swung his baton across the back of her head. It connected with a dull thud, sending her crumpling to the ground. She did not move, and someone else dragged her the remaining way.

As the group marched into the chieftain’s building, the remaining man in fatigues was separated from the rest, forced down onto his knees outside. The guard next to him reached for his gun holster, then hesitated, before pulling out his machete instead.

The Yemeni looked away as the guard swung his blade. Even the sugar-filled drink could not rid him of the bitterness in his mouth. But he knew better than to engage the men of the Ten Rings. Not without better weaponry, more men and, of course, a fat paycheck waiting in an offshore bank of his choosing.

“What will they do to them?” the American’s voice was devoid of emotion, impossible to tell what was going through his head after witnessing the scene before them.

The Yemeni motioned towards the boxes of filming equipment loaded on one of the outside trucks. “Propaganda or to send a message. Considering the state of that poor man outside, I very much doubt they’re here for a ransom. A warning to peacekeeping forces in the region perhaps? Or a ritualistic decapitation of some kind?” The Yemeni man had been operating in this particular war-torn part of the world for the past two decades, and he was seldom wrong. “Either way, they’re dead.”

“And the woman?”

“They executed the man when he couldn’t move, but they carried her instead. Which means she’s likely of some importance to them. I don’t know. Maybe she’s a person of interest, worth something to someone, or maybe they just don’t want to let her go to waste.”

“Meaning?”

“Rape, slave trade, maybe even take her as one of their wives. All sorts of nasty. Who knows with these crazy fucks.”

It was a minute before the American spoke again. “You can leave if you want to.”

The Yemeni exhaled. “And I assume you’re not coming with me?”

Silence.

The Yemeni sighed again for probably the hundredth time that evening, then he finished his drink and picked up his handy Kalashnikov. “Fuck. Someone better be willing to pay a fucking chunk of reward money for them.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Pepper Potts came to after the crash, lungs full of smoke and face covered in soot, she thought she was lucky to have survived. That was until she crawled through twisted metal and burning debris to escape the fallen craft, and saw _them_ waiting in the distance.

It was then she realized that the surface-to-air missiles were never meant to blow them out of the skies—only to cripple their wings, and send them crashing down to the ground—where _they’d_ be waiting.

Of the twenty of them on the plane, only eight survived the crash. One of them, a military contractor by the name of Ellis, tried to fight back—he barely managed to draw his gun before a sniper—someone Pepper couldn’t even see, blew Ellis’ head clean off.

Only six of them were loaded up onto the trucks. Williams—one of Pepper’s oldest friend and colleague from Stark Industries, was executed on the spot. Not because he resisted, but because he couldn’t move, not with that large piece of metal sticking out through the side of his ribs.

She tried to help him, but someone pulled her away, threw a bag over her head, and she saw nothing else.

But as the truck rumbled across the desert, she heard someone scream, and there came the unmistakeable sounds of a body being dumped over the back of the truck.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky never liked operating in the Middle East; the barren terrains meant more exposure, lesser cover, and frankly, he’d never liked the desert heat.

It was nothing close to operating in the forests of Siberia, with the snow beneath his feet and the shadows of trees like demons welcoming him into their midst.

But regardless of his preferences, Bucky was a professional, and professionals _get shit done_ no matter the terrain.

So, while his Yemeni companion started to scale the building behind their tent to find himself a sniper’s perch, Bucky headed straight into his targets’ midst.

Not to engage all the men head on, of course. He knew that he could take out maybe half a dozen of them head-on, but he’d quickly get overwhelmed by their numbers; he wasn’t invulnerable, and he knew his own limits.

But fortunately for him, they weren’t waiting for him on an open terrain. In fact, they weren’t waiting, nor even expecting him at all. And other than the few of them watching guard, the majority of them were already inside the dead-warlord’s residence.

And if buildings had anything, it was always shadows and covers.

 

* * *

 

 

Up on his little vantage point, with his body positioned in an uncomfortable, yet necessary angle, and with the merciless sun bearing down on his ass, the Yemeni watched in utter fascination through his rifle’s high-optics scope as his American companion dismantled the Ten Rings’ exterior lookout in less than a minute.

The _White Wolf_ moved like a shadow through the desert heat, barely leaving marks in the sand below. As he scaled the building’s exterior, hanging onto the ledge beneath the third-floor balcony’s point of ingress, the Yemeni kept his weapon locked onto one of the two guards just above the American. The Yemeni’s finger rested on the trigger, a firm point of pressure, waiting for his companion to make the next move.

Then—the American moved, and in less than a second, it was over. He leapt onto the balcony, sliced at the throat of one man, and sent the blade flying into the chest of the other.

No assistance required. The Yemeni would’ve whistled if he wasn’t trying to stay absolutely quiet. He watched as the American dragged the two bodies into the shadows before disappearing into the building.

Once the American was inside the building, the Yemeni descended from his. He wouldn’t be able to help from here; the _White Wolf_ was now on his own. But after their months working together, the Yemeni no longer had any qualms about his companion’s abilities; inside the building, the _White Wolf_ was even more dangerous than before.

 

* * *

 

 

They locked her into an empty room. No furniture, no bed, only a small window with iron bars, and hooks for chains on the walls around her. Pepper was dumped onto the floor, across what seemed like dried blood all around her. She tried to remain calm, but it terrified her to imagine what had happened here, and if it was going to happen to her soon enough.

She tried telling herself that Tony was coming for her, or that someone from the Avengers was going to burst in through the ceiling at any moment. But she also knew that the chances of it were low, exceedingly low.

She recognized the people in charge here; there was a reason why the Ten Rings was one of the most feared terrorist organizations in the world; they were quick, effective, and mostly, they knew how to remain hidden.

They’d been operating out of the Middle East for close to a decade now, and the Mandarin’s base of operations were still yet to be found. No one had even seen their leader in the flesh, or at least lived long enough to reveal his identity—the real Mandarin, not the actor Aldrich Kilian had hired to impersonate—the same actor who Mandarin broke free from prison and executed on live video.

Pepper wondered if the same was going to happen to her. She saw the boxes of recording equipment on the other truck. The same they’d used to film the wreckage and close-ups of her fallen companions. Filming them like a sick, detached part of a documentary, and not of people who were alive just moments before.

Later, when three men entered the room, she was prepared to defend herself, to fight to the bitter end. But she was weak, exhausted, and in pain. They overpowered her and pinned her down to the ground. As one of the men started to unbuckle his pants, Pepper squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the worst to pass.

 

* * *

 

 

Someone answered her prayers, but he was no divine deity listening from above. Bucky emerged from the shadows, like a demon from the dark, a sharp glint as a knife appeared in his hands, lancing through the neck of the first man before the other two could react.

Then he rolled towards the second, the knife arcing forward and straight into the man’s exposed jugular. The third man turned towards him, pants around his ankle, and for a second, he seemed to hesitate between pulling up his pants and drawing his weapon.

That split second was all Bucky needed, as he leapt forward and grabbed onto the man’s neck with his bionic arm, lifting him up into the air with strength not of a normal human’s, and slammed him down onto the ground, shattering his spine.

All three of the men were dead within seconds.

A moment of silence passed, before Bucky turned to the woman cowering at the side of the room. Her clothing was dirty, her hair was messy, and dirt covered half her face, but he was right—he knew he’d recognized her when they first took the bag off her face.

“Miss Potts.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Miss Potts_.

After all the violence that had transpired in that short span of time, it was strange, to say the least, to hear her name being spoken in such a courteous tone. It broke Pepper out of her stupor, and she stared at the man before her, at his desert-tanned skin and his days-old stubble; there was a certain familiarity in his features, but at that moment, with her heart beating through her chest and adrenaline pumping through her veins, she couldn’t think, much less place him from where she’d seen him.

Then she remembered.

His face, on newspaper clippings and news reports all over the world. _James Buchanan Barnes, responsible for the Vienna bombing_. The man singlehandedly responsible for almost tearing the Avengers apart.

She knew by now that he was set up by Helmut Zemo; and Steve Rogers had made clear the most of last year that nothing was going to stop him from clearing the name of his childhood friend.

But that was before the Winter Soldier’s disappearance.

She’d heard of sightings of him in war-torn areas of the world, reports of him working as a mercenary-for-hire. But in recent months, trails of him had gone cold, and as much as Steve tried, there was no denying the strong possibility that the Winter Soldier might no longer be alive—or no longer wanted to be found.

That was until now.

And it seemed that he’d found her instead.

“B-Barnes…?” she said, no stronger than a whisper.

Something changed in his face. If he was surprised that she recognized him, he made no mention of it. Instead, he stepped over the dead men and kneeled down beside her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice gruff, but softer than she’d imagined.

She shook her head. There was concern in his voice, but mechanical, not quite of genuine concern of her wellbeing, but more of a strategic awareness; he wasn’t interested in her mental state, purely her physical, if she was able to get up to her feet or if he’d have to carry her the whole way. “I-I’m a little bruised… but I think I’m alright.”

He helped her up onto her feet.

“W-What about the others?” she stammered.

“All dead,” he said, voice devoid of emotion. “You’re the only one they kept alive. Or had not gotten to.”

“Oh my god…” her heart sank.

“Stay behind me,” he did not allow her a second’s reprieve. “And try not to get killed.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three floors and a dozen dead terrorists later, they were almost clear of the building. Bucky was one step out of the front entrance when something stopped him, an instinctual awareness from his years of active combat, just as the space in front of him exploded into a clump of sand and dirt.

He grabbed onto the woman’s hand as he leapt back into the building’s cover. More debris rained down around them as unseen sniper fire cracked from somewhere in the sand dunes beyond.

They were pinned down, and from the corner of his eyes, Bucky saw another group of men approaching from their blind side. He counted six, potentially more. He’d have to engage the men on two fronts. Both the approaching men and the unseen sniper, while at the same time protecting the woman behind him. It was going to be a difficult task, almost impossible.

He checked his pistol’s magazine—there were only four bullets left, not even enough to take out the rapidly approaching group. He ducked as more sniper fire lasered the wall behind him.

Then there was a loud crack—and the sniper fire stopped.

There was a burst of static as the Yemeni’s voice fizzled through Bucky’s earpiece.

“ _Friend, aren’t you glad I stayed?”_

Before Bucky could reply, there were six more cracks.

“ _The east group is down. Left courtyard is clear to exfil. There are hostiles approaching my location with RPGs. I’m bailing. This is the last support I can provide, friend.”_

Bucky touched his earpiece. “Thanks. Now get out of here too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky hunkered down behind one of the parked trucks as gunfire erupted around him. He waited, then popped out to return fire, downing two of them before slipping back into cover.

Two bullets left. Not enough to keep them at bay and find time to hotwire the truck at the same time.  

But it seemed like he wouldn’t need to. The sound of the truck’s engine coming to life surprised him. He went over to the driver’s side and saw Pepper inside the vehicle, fiddling with a bunch of wires underneath the ignition switch.

“What? You do know that my boss is Tony Stark, right?” she said when noticing his reaction. “Now get in.”

He grunted in approval and hopped into the passenger’s seat, firing out of the window as Pepper floored the accelerator, sending the truck crashing through the wooden gates, and into the scorching heat.

 

* * *

 

 

For the longest time, they drove in silence.

When Pepper’s hands finally stopped shaking, she asked, “How?”

“How what?”

“How did you find me? Was it Tony? Did he send you?”

The Winter Soldier laughed. “Your boyfriend still wants me dead. The last thing he’d do is contact me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “And you’re not answering my question.”

“It was… a coincidence.”

“A coincidence…?”

“I was working in the area. I recognized you. That was it.”

Pepper didn’t know what to say. “T-Thank you, I guess.” There was no response, and through the rear-view mirror, she saw his face grimacing in pain. Then she looked down, and saw that he was bleeding through the kevlar on his side. “You’re shot!?”

“No shit,” he grunted.

“I’m going to pull over,” she said. “You’re losing so much blood, we need to--.”

He grabbed onto her arm, and she felt the cold steel beneath his touch. “No, keep driving, we can’t let them catch up.” He pointed to the nearest village on the map they’d found in the truck’s front compartment. “At least till we get somewhere to hide.”  

 

* * *

 

 

A few hours later, they arrived at the small, unnamed village. Under the cover of nightfall, Pepper surveyed the village until finding an empty farmhouse. Then she returned to the truck and, with Bucky’s arm looped around the back of her neck, helped him over to the building.

With the sun long over the horizon, the temperature fell, and Pepper soon found herself desperate for the fading warmth. Spotting an old furnace by the side of the farmhouse, she was in the midst of lighting it up when Bucky stopped her.

“Don’t,” he hissed between gritted teeth. “People can see the smoke.” 

She nodded and sat down beside him, trying to ignore the cold while getting a better look at his wound under the soft moonlight. He was still bleeding, and if she had to guess, it was because the bullet was still lodged inside him. There was no way to remove the bullet in their current state, so the second-best option would be to stop the bleeding first and worry about the bullet later.

She rummaged through the old building, trying to find something of use, eventually stumbling upon an old sewing kit. She dug through the dusty old strings and found one still in its plastic covering. That was good. The needle however, she could only find one. In its current state, she’d have to sterilize it somehow.

She went outside and grabbed a few branches and some dried grass. Putting them together in a neat stack, and placed the thickest branch between her palms and started to rub them together. She’d never made a fire this way before, but she understood how in theory, it was just basic friction.

Ten minutes later, however, basic friction was still yet to be.

“What are you doing?”

Pepper jumped at the proximity of his voice. He stood next to her, his normal arm grabbing onto the side of the table for balance. Even in his weakened state, she’d not heard him approach.

She showed him the needle. “Trying to sterilize it so I can stitch you up.”

“Should’ve said so earlier,” he raised his metal arm over the patch of dried grass and flicked his fingers. There was a soft screech of metal, a tiny spark, and smoke soon rose from the grass.

“That’s… useful,” she couldn’t help her smile.

He shrugged and sat back down.

She ran the needle over the heat until it burned red hot, then she stomped the fire out and returned to his side. “This is going to hurt,” she said.

“I’m used to it.”

True to his words, there came no visible reaction when the needle pierced flesh, and his face remained completely straight while she stitched him up. It wasn’t a pretty job, but it’d hold.

Afterwards, as the night grew older and the cabin colder, she found warmth curled up next to him. As exhaustion took hold, sleep came easy.

 

* * *

 

 

When Pepper woke up the next day, Bucky was gone from her side. Panic set in for a few long seconds as she wondered if he’d abandoned her, until he stepped back in through the front door. He held a bundle of clothing in one hand, and a few pieces of bread in the other.

“Took it from the village,” he answered her question without being asked.

Pepper didn’t like stealing, but there were no complaints as she wolfed down the stale bread like it was the most delicious thing in the world.

After their brief breakfast, they changed into the less conspicuous clothing that Bucky found. She noticed him turning away when she started to strip out of her clothing, and it was the most peculiar sight; to see a seasoned killer who’d torn through dozens of terrorists like it was nothing, turn away in modesty.

She had to admit, it was quite endearing.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, in another stolen car, he said while looking at the map they took from the truck, “We’re a few minutes out from an American FOB.”

“FOB?”

“Forward Operating Base. U.S military. Friendlies. You’ll be safe there.”

“And you?” she asked, not liking the finality in the way he’d said ‘ _you_ ’.

“You know I can’t follow you there.”

“Why not?”

“I’m still a wanted man. They’d arrest me on sight.”

As much as Pepper hated it, she knew it was true. “I’ll explain to them the situation, you’ll be able to—”

“I’m going to be fine,” he interrupted her. “Basra’s half a day’s drive away. I have a safehouse there.” 

“But…” before she could argue, an RPG streaked over their heads and blew up the road in front of them.

 

* * *

 

 

A minute into the assault, one thing became clear to Bucky: there was no losing them in the open, he’d have to drive them both into the American outpost where the terrorists could not give chase.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, but Bucky was sure he’d prefer being put in chains than beheaded in front of a camera. At least in the former, he’d have a chance to escape before arriving back on American soil.

So he stepped as hard as he could on the pedal and hoped the terrorists’ aim was as shit as the car he was in.

 

* * *

 

 

The longest ten-minutes later, he heard the approaching whirl of helicopter blades, and he knew they’d made it. He stopped the car as half a dozen Humvees approached from the outpost and surrounded them. The two of them exited, and with their hands over their heads, kneeled into the sand.

Another ten-minutes later, they were in the base, surrounded by hundreds of American soldiers. One of them held a scanner to Pepper’s face, which soon beeped with her biometrics.

“Miss Potts, we’re glad to have you back with us,” the man said. “Let’s get you checked out at the infirmary.”

The same scanner was placed in front of Bucky’s face, but instead of a green beep, there was a shrill of red, and in the next instance, the men around them had all drawn their weapons.

Bucky sighed, and Pepper’s words of protest was the last thing he heard before someone clubbed him over the back of his head.

 

* * *

 

 

She came to visit him in their interrogation room. She sat in front of him, and he saw her eyes flicker to his hands, which were cuffed to the table.

“They shouldn’t be doing this to you,” she said.

He shrugged. “Lets them feel safe.”

“I’ve tried explaining the situation, I told them I’m only alive because of what you did, but they aren’t budging. They want to bring you back to the U.S to stand trial.”

“That’s nice.”

“That’s nice…!?”

“I expected a firing squad in the back alley.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “James, please, I want to help you.”

That was the first time in a long while anyone had said his name. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. “Then go home,” he said. “Let me know I’ve completed my mission.”

“But…”

“Go home, please.”

 

* * *

 

 

His hands were cuffed in front of him, as were his legs, connected through a thick steel chain which ran up to his neck. A little excessive, sure, but he knew they were afraid of him. They’d seen his file, to them, it was a necessary precaution.

As they marched him out of his cell and towards the transport van which would take him to the plane, the last person he’d expected to see cuffed up at the back—was his Yemeni friend.

“The _White Wolf_ in the flesh!” the man exclaimed as he noticed Bucky. He tried to raise his hands in what seemed to be a wave, but was restricted by his chains, which clanged against his thighs.

“You’re alive,” said Bucky, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Of course!” the Yemeni laughed. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m dying to no stinking terrorists. The Americans though, sneaky fucks were waiting for me on the other side of the hill!”

Before Bucky could reply, someone shouted at them from across the airfield.

It was Pepper.

She stomped over to them, her path quickly blocked by the two heavily armed guards escorting him.

“Give me a minute,” she said, breathing heavily. Then, without as much a warning, she pushed past the two guards, grabbed onto Bucky’s collar and pulled him down into a kiss.

The guards reached for their weapons, then stopped as they realized what was happening. When they broke apart, the Yemeni was howling with laughter, Bucky had the most incredulous look in his eyes, and Pepper just smiled, her usually neat hair cresting in the evening’s wind.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later and three thousand miles up in the skies, the Yemeni, strapped to his seat across from Bucky, started to laugh. “I don’t believe it!” there were tears in his eyes as he bellowed with laughter. “All that just for a kiss?! And no tongue!? It’d better be the best damn one in your life!”

Bucky did not say a single word, but gave him the most uncharacteristic grin, and as the Yemeni’s laughter came to a complete stop, his mouth forming an amazed ‘O’, a small, black hairpin slipped out from between Bucky’s lips and dropped into his waiting hands.

 _Click_.

It took less than a minute for him to get his cuffs off, and another to disarm the two guards beside him.

The Yemeni squealed in delight. “Do me next! Do me next!” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "and Pepper just smiled, her usually neat hair cresting in the evening’s wind"
> 
> points if you caught it before the reveal :)


End file.
